


The Usual Won't Cut it Anymore

by sahdah



Category: Midnight Poppy Land (Webcomic)
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, stuck in your mind anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:41:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24201487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahdah/pseuds/sahdah
Summary: Tora isn't known for running-- then again he's never met anyone like Poppy before.
Relationships: Tora/Poppy, tora/bobby/sweetheart
Comments: 4
Kudos: 53





	The Usual Won't Cut it Anymore

**Author's Note:**

> One shot heavily inspired by the events leading up to episode 20 and the two day time skip-- just thoughts that take place before the flashback in episode 28. All known dialogue of course is the work of Lilydusk. I write fanfic for books and anime, but this is my first time writing for a webcomic.

Fuck! Maybe Alice had a point about that drink. 

The night has cooled off in Narin City, but Tora’s blood is still steaming. Deep down he knows Poppy isn’t trying to check him into any box-- that’s all him. The short nails of his fingers bite into the meat of his palms within his balled fist-- he’s in over his fucking head. 

He can feel the enamel straining with the force of his clenched jaw. It’s the innocent, doe like transparency of her stare that’s done this to him. No one has ever met his gaze the way she does. Without a single hint of wanting anything from him-- except what he rightfully owes her-- the destruction of that photo he had no business obtaining. Not a damned thing _. _ What the fuck is he supposed to do with that? 

  
Whipping the key out, Tora punches the unlock button to a flash of lights. After folding his large frame into the tiny ass German sports car, he spends an additional five seconds looking for the ignition before recalling that it is on the  _ left _ . As in the complete ass opposite of the ignition in his WRX. The vein in his forehead pulses with the unnamed emotion he doesn’t want to dissect. 

Fuck that.

Instead of dwelling on it, he heads towards the streets he knows are abandoned at this hour of night, then drops a gear trying to outrace his spinning thoughts.

_ Whatever box you’re trying to fit me into… it’s the wrong one.  _ Road silence stretches on for a number of seconds interrupted only by the irritated flicks Tora gives the cigarette butt.

What’s hilarious is the fact that the woman has absolutely zero idea what she’s done to him. Not a damned clue.

Goddmanit! Why is he so pissed off? Some creeper on a train took a photo of her with her tits out-- of course, she went to the cops to make a report. The car growls as he rockets out of town…

To the officer in charge who just happened to be Lane, of all fucking people…

Moonlit landscape blurs around him as the whine of the engine speeds faster. 

That’s the end of that fucking story.

He takes a slow drag of his cigarette not caring that Quincey is going to bitch about the smell-- the windows are cracked, princess’ll deal.

And Tora will deal with Lane later, if he has to. Right now, he needs to focus on completing the job at hand. Retrieving that goddamned notebook-- the cigarette burns closer to the filter but it does little to calm his anxieties-- so he can get the hell out of **her** life, just like he said he would.

Her strength and composure draw him in like a damned light starved moth to her flame. Tantalizing him. Jeezus fuck! 

There’s a sickened feeling in his gut. Remembering the bitter words. He’d actually accused her of falling in love with him? Fuck him for being a chickenshit thug-- transparent as broken glass in a pool. 

_ I didn’t fall in love with you, you arrogant jerk!! _

The ghost of her firm grip on his right elbow still feels electric. Even his nose feels raw-- for someone so fucking cute and adorable she sure packs a mean left hand jab. He draws in another deep drag. But really, when was the last time someone called him out on his shit like this?

_My boyfriend just cheated on me, and the_ last _thing I want is_ ** _more_** _boy problems…_ his lungs have drawn in their full air capacity and his jaw remains clamped down. That asshole-- the thought evaporates because her voice still echoes in his mind. _I was just very touched, by what you did for me!_

_ Touched.  _ As if he could have just let her fall out of that tree while trying to save that damned cat.

How dare she look at him with that soft eyed concern, raw honesty, never skirting around the issue in order to manipulate him. Just sweet and vulnerable-- no wonder he’d been the one to flee. 

He’s fucked. 

Poppylan-- _ Poppy. _

Tora drags on the cigarette but even the acrid burn of the smoke in his mouth isn’t enough to put his heart rate at ease. Not when her eyes fill his mind. The touch of her hand burning his arm. The putrid smell of Marlboro can’t get hers out of his head, even after she thwacked his nose. Out of his peripherals the RPMs are redlining-- fucking car isn’t even broken in if the odometer is correct. 

Clutch and break hit the floor panel beneath the force of his Chucks. The sports car protesting the spirited break stomp by screeching to an irritated stop two hundred feet later. 

**_FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_ **

At some point he returns to Quincey’s. At some point he passes out. At some point, presumably, he’s going to forget about her. 

Forget about the way she looks at him. Forget about the way her ridiculous sweatshirt taunts him with what’s hidden underneath. What he’s only had a maddening, small, pixelated view of. Purple lace. Tiny bow. Made even tinier by his phone screen.

The best part is-- she has no idea he deleted the pre-cropped version. Not that his brain hadn’t recorded the fine details in long term RAM. He'll delete the other when the time comes. 

The Italian leather creaks under his weight as Tora groans and collapses onto the custom couch. That girl has no idea that the words on her sweatshirt only drew in his attention. It’s late. But his mind won’t fucking stop…

Won’t stop... 

...The fuck?

Tora looks down at Poppy’s hand holding onto the sleeve of his jacket. Hates that he’s pissed her off. Hates that he can't fucking process his damn emotions, because he's broken. 

“Wanna get out of here?” The night is cool. Somewhere, Alice is probably watching his every move. And all he can think of is getting Poppy out of here-- out of anywhere where anyone can pry on her. 

That’s when he sees that her chest is exposed, pale pink framed by the lacy purple. Fuck, the only thing he has on is the fucking jacket Ryu had filched from his co-worker. 

Over his shoulder he hears him say, “Bruh, don’t leave the cutie hanging.”

Not that Poppy hears. Her hand is wiping the blood from his face, even as he tries to hide behind his ball cap. If he removes his jacket she’s going to see his tattoos. Why doesn’t he want her to see his tats? He's trying to recall. 

“Tora?” Poppy’s voice is husky in the dim light of the street.

Goddamnit, that look on her face has his dick growing uncomfortably in his designer jeans. 

And from the door, Quincey pokes his head into the room. “See, and you thought they were extravagant. Chevy’s girl totally digs those tight jeans.”

The grimace on his face is one he can feel deep within his gut. Fuck. Off. Quince. 

He turns back to Poppy. His shirt is gone, his hair is in his face. In his arms the woman squirms. “Why’s it so dark in here?”

Her tiny hands are enveloped in his. “Here,” he hears himself say, gently guiding her. “Just put your fingers here and here and then pull.”

It’s quiet. So quiet, in fact, her soft breathing is the only sound that fills his mind. Now joined by the soft brush of the cotton cords as they slither out of his knot until he hears the soft pop of the unraveled drawstring. 

His hands slide the hood off of her head as the fabric whispers against her chestnut locks. 

Poppy looks up at him. “You have a nice voice, ya know.”

She has that backwards. 

It’s she who has the nice voice, the voice that draws him in. 

“You have nice--” her eyes have ensnared him. What are words even? He isn’t sure anymore-- “ _ jackfruit _ .” 

His nose cracks for a second time before he hears her squeal. “How dare you!” As if her threats carried any more weight than the angry cat she’s just saved does as it runs away spitting and hissing. 

He can feel the heat of her, even if she is still zipped up in his jacket. The weight of her within his arms after catching her. Tora slides in close uttering the first truth that comes to mind. “Sleep with me.” 

The way her face turns bright red only fuels his begging. Because it's what he’s fucking doing-- begging. It's clear she thinks he's joking. But, what she has to give has never been offered to him. And he wants it. Fuck him does he want. 

The way her heart beats around him. Those maddening blushes. How she meets his challenges-- he wants it all. 

A soft breath escapes her setting his senses aflame. The rest of his body spontaneously combusts when a tentative hand reaches out to touch his chest. Eyebrows knitted in confusion, “Sleep with you?” 

It’s a maddening question. 

The woman at the ticket counter would have taken him then and there. As would the pair that followed him after. But, his hands slide the jacket off of her dusty-pink shoulders, not this woman. This woman responds with a healthy dose of skepticism. Maybe he is bluffing, maybe he needs to see how much she really wants him. 

“Mhm,” he hums, nose dipping to the hollow of her collarbone where her skin prickles in a delicious shiver of goosebumps. 

Vice like hands sink into his hair and pull his head back. “Fuck yeah,” replies the ticket counter woman breathing heavily. And then two more pairs of hands caress his body, working to undo his jeans-- No! This isn’t what he wants, but the two other women from Moonbright station hold him. 

Fucking fuck!

Across the road Poppy emerges from the woods looking startled, but instead of looking away she takes him in. 

“My boyfriend just cheated on me. The last thing I want is to--” she grimaces looking at him and the three women who he’s struggling to get away from-- “is  **more** boy problems!’

The blackness takes him. When he comes to, he’s trapped in the manhole-- Quincy looks down on him with pity. “Ya really shouldn’t play around with her heart like that, Tora.”

He doesn't fuck around. Not after the shit that happened to him because of clan business. Until he was big enough to put a stop to it himself. 

Somewhere deep in the recesses of his consciousness he knows he's dreaming. Slowly, he comes to the surface. The formal living room illuminated by the lights of Narin City. Reaches out to the phone on the marble coffee table and kills his night vision with the searing glow of QLED. It's fuck o'clock and there's a message from  _ Bobby. _

Sound is swallowed by the void and tinnitus replaces it, amplifying his erratic heartbeat. Finger hovering over the notification icon before clicking lock screen-- he can't right now. If he does he'll probably do something stupid.  _ Say _ something stupid. 

Something like you're the only person I've ever  _ asked _ to sleep with. As if that somehow absolves him of his past misdeeds. Thrice damned for actually saying it out loud -- he palms his face trying to wipe away the exhaustion he feels -- as if she can understand that she brings down all his guards. That she makes an honest, vulnerable fool out of him. That she's the only woman he's ever brought around the only people he considers family… that he's misjudged her. 

Like a fool he'd assumed she'd want to be shown off in the fanciest of clubs like the women from Moonbright would have given the chance. He stifles a yawn, his hand rubbing at the dull ache behind his eyes. All that does is bring her into full focus,  _ Why can't someone else JUST DO IT… _

Sitting up he shakes his head as he kicks off the chucks. Insomnia has been a bitch ever since Goliath went missing. And sleeping clearly isn't a safe mental option at the moment. 

At the far end of the hall come the sounds of blue whales from Quincey's room. 

Sighing, Tora pushes himself up from the couch and pads silently towards the guest suite where he has toiletries and a few changes of clothes. Running a hand through his hair is a mistake. The shit Quince had recommended has cemented itself to his head, mostly he feels gross. 

The vestiges of the dream linger, he needs to wash the feel of those women's hands out of his brain. 

One of the perks of being at Quincey place is that his long time friend is extremely fussy about having the perfect lighting. Tora has yet to come clean about having messed up the lighting circuit in his borrowed bedroom, his mouth pulls into a half grin. None of the service repair men that have come by have been able to fix it. 

The smart lights link to his phone as he pulls up one of his darker playlists, instrumental with no words. He doesn't need any suggestive lyrics to further fan his newfound obsession. 

His shower, or rather the guest shower that is programmed to his settings is large enough to fit ten. And Q has probably had it filled to capacity from time to time-- Tora doesn't ask questions he doesn't need answered. Not that it stops his mind from going there. 

Steam fills the air further shuttering his senses, what the fuck is he doing? Tired hands drag at the tight jacket as he peels it from his upper body. God he feels gross. Next go the jeans. Then the boxer briefs. The socks are last. 

Naked, standing in front of the full height mirrored wall, Tora takes in the wreckage that is his hair, before pulling the hair elastic out. He runs his hand through the product, matted tresses. 

Poppy had found his hair situation... amusing. 

His dick twitches at the mere suggesting of her name. Resigned to his fate, he walks into the open shower, dick swelling larger, swinging side to side with each step. 

By the time he's done with the conditioner he can no longer ignore his now painful erection. "Are ya fucking kidding me?" He's exasperated. 

She'd pulled off his hat. 

Involuntary cock twitch. 

She'd liked the smell of his jacket…

He's insanely aware of his pulse. 

She'd drooled over the sushi spread-- he bites his lip-- her cheek was so soft. A shaky breath escapes him…  _ so squishy.  _

Silky. 

His cock is in the same hand and he tugs, hating the languid sigh that rushes from his clenched mouth. 

It's her eyes he sees when he squeezes his own shut and he grips himself that much harder. Bracing his left arm on the glass to rest his shameful head on. 

_ Poppy, I deleted the picture.  _

His heart rate increases to the tempo of his hand. 

_ Forgetting, though, isn't as simple.  _

He drags a breath into his lungs. As he replays her hair in slow motion, arms extended to catch his paper plane. The wet slapping of his hand could easily be the sound of the birds at the station that day. His phone was poised for the shot he knew he'd get. A still shot. And yet, her hair comes down around her shoulders in slow motion as the weight of her breasts prove too much for her mangled top. 

Subconsciously, he times his strokes to that visual on loop. His hips buck to the same loop. Her laughter fills his mind. The ghost of her fingers pushing his hair behind his ear prickles his senses.

His breathing is shallow. 

He's a sack of shit but fuck it. Tora gives in and lets his imagination take over-- tongue curious to savor her, of how she'd feel in his mouth, his hands. 

Of her hands holding his face prisoner. Ripping his clothes off the way she'd done with his hat. The idea of riling her up in his bed, or better still her own…

_ Bobby… sweetheart... _

Fuuuck! He shudders at the memory of her indignation. He likes that side of her too much. 

She makes him stupid. He's not sure he's actually breathing. 

Forget her punch-- he'd brought that upon himself for pushing her boundaries to their limit -- that look…

… the one that sees right through him. 

But it's her gasp of surprise, her utter shock, and maddening rose flush at connecting with his nose, that makes him lose it, spilling over the glass. 

Not that it helps. 

Straightening, he arches back, stretching the muscles that still haven't relaxed and finishes up his shower. 

All this moment had accomplished is highlighting the need to get that notebook back before  _ that  _ fucker figures out Poppy is involved. 

Scharch _. _

Who should be headed out of town within the next few days. And then-- he'll give her his answer. For now, his long hair steadily drips water down his back as he wraps the towel around his torso, he needs to distract himself. 

Ryu should have the location of Mr. Lam by tomorrow morning, if he hasn’t located him already. Then he’ll give that information to Poppy. Only after, will he give her his answer. 

Tora pulls on his clean sweat pants, foregoing underwear and pads to the guest room with the faulty lights. At some point he has to speak with Lane-- regardless of the photo...

For a minute he debates opening the balcony door to smoke or going to the kitchen for green tea-- but his eyes feel heavy, his whole body feels heavy.

_ Fuck-- _ he should’ve taken Alice up on that drink. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
